


All My Heart This Night Rejoices (or A Fitzsimmons Carol)

by atomicsupervillainess



Series: Corpsey Verse [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Fitz being scandalized, Fluff, Fluffy as hell, Hen Party night, Ice Skating, Jemma being scandalous, Sleigh rides, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, Winter wedding, adorable interludes, crack!fic, drunken suffragettes, girl talk, hand-written drunk messages delivered by london street-urchins, long-suffering Fitz, opium dens, perthshire cottage discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5244695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicsupervillainess/pseuds/atomicsupervillainess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before their Winter Wedding, Miss Jemima Simmons and Mister Leopold Fitz had planned to engage in the jolly traditions of their time, enjoying lofty plans of a Hen-Do and a Stag Night with their respective friends. Mr. Fitz's, as is tradition's (and his good friend Mr. Hunter's) wont involved dens of opium, iniquity, gambling, and loose women. </p><p>Miss Jemima Simmons', much to her dismay, involved ice-skating, chaperones, and a night without her beloved's bottom to squeeze. She was fond of none of those things.</p><p>Luckily however, she is fond of a delightful concoction, brought by her lovely friend, Miss Daisy Coulson, of Jamaican Rum and hot cocoa, and she had drank it liberally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Heart This Night Rejoices (or A Fitzsimmons Carol)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [memorizingthedigitsofpi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi/gifts).



> This fic is for Pi, who needs all the fluff and levity to leaven out the angst of the current season! I hope you like it Pi!

* * *

 

There was a bracing chill to the air. It nipped at Jemma’s cheeks as she sat on the snowy banks of the frozen pond. Her gloved hands wrapped tighter around her mug of hot cocoa, soaking in the heat of it, while she sipped daintily at the rich liquid inside, liberally spiked with rum from the West Indies (An indulgence granted from her rather wild suffragette associate, a young Miss Daisy Coulson, whose fascination with the analytical engine, and knowledge thereof, rivalled Miss Lovelace’s herself).

With a deep sigh, Jemma lifted her eyes heavenward. There was a deep, mauvy tinge to the heavy clouds. In childhood, and even, into her present, marriageable age, if she so confessed, she had always associated that particular shade with the inevitable flutter of snow, falling like downy feathers. Absently, and perhaps, a bit tipsily, she wished for the icy flakes to drift, so she might catch them on her tongue.

Caught out in her momentary quietude, her dear friend, Mrs. Lancelot Hunter (nee Miss Barbara Morse) skidded her skates to a stop at the edge of the pond’s frozen surface, showering the hem of Jemma’s quilted raspberry silk frock with ice-shavings. “Miss Simmons, you look positively pensive! Having a touch of the morbs before the wedding night?”

“Oh hardly,” Jemma snorted, her shoulders shaking with barely held mirth. She wouldn’t know it, but later, when Mrs. Hunter spoke of it to her husband, she would say that her friend had appeared lit from within, glowing like a banked hearthfire.

Jemma grinned, wide and lazy, her eyes half-lidded, as she swayed in snowbank, watching the bodies move and drift on the ice, dancing like the snowflakes she had wished for. “I have heard it is quite scandalous for a person not to feel an ounce of fear before their wedding day, Mrs. Hunter,” Jemma began, as Miss Coulson veered in their direction with a rather enthusiastic, if frightfully clumsy, wave. “Is that so?”

“Is what so?” Miss Daisy inquired, stumbling uncoordinatedly into Mrs. Hunter’s back as she attempted a bumbling mimicry of Mrs. Hunter’s graceful stop. All three women tumbled into a fit of rum-addled giggles as the two righted themselves. “Is what so?” Daisy repeated.

“I have heard from some rather definitive sources that a woman ought to feel quite terrified on the eve of her wedding, Miss Coulson, and that to not be so would be quite scandalous indeed -” what say you, Mrs. Hunter, as the most wedded of us not yet at such a dizzy age,” Jemma said with a twinkle and tiny gesture to Miss Coulson’s Step-mother and Jemma’s own mother, who skated in pleasant company, unaware of the fact that their daughters were currently in such a debilitated, drunken state - why, they were nearly boiled owls!

Mrs. Hunter tossed back her blonde curls with a laugh, waving for the thermos Jemma had been imbibing from most of the tedious evening (chaperones, and her sex, had summarily dampened what she had surmised would be an altogether more exciting evening. But society did not look pleasantly upon young ladies carousing as it did upon menfolk, sadly), and took a deep draught. With a grin, she answered, “Why, woman to woman,” she cast her eyes at her compatriots with a knowing quirk of her eyebrow, “I must say, I myself was quite terrified. However the reason had very little to do with the fears of the wedding night, and more to do with the inconsolable years and years of wedded bliss I would be forced to endure with my rakish husband.”

The wedded woman tilted her head cunningly, and passed the thermos to the young Miss Coulson. “Why, Miss Simmons, are you determined to scandalize us with a declaration to not even have a _little_ fear?”

“ _Quite_ determined,” Jemma said, leaning over her knees and setting her jaw, before breaking out into a grin and flopping back onto the snow. With a joyful laugh, she drunkenly flapped her arms against the drifts, sweeping them into snow angels’ wings. “Why, if anyone in this marriage ought to be fearful, it should be my dear, dear Fitzy. I intend to be something of a trial upon our wedding night. You do recall I have a vested interest in the medical sciences and the human form - “

Miss Coulson let out a high shriek and pitched forward into the snow, sprawling beside her friend, her eyes wide, impressed. “Do you mean to suggest that you shall take a - a curiosity in -” Her voice dropped and her cheeks coloured. “-in his...masculine.. _.formation_?”

“WHY, YES, _OF COURSE_ I SHALL!” Jemma shouted in exasperation, slapping at the snow beside her and turning onto her side to face Daisy fully. Mrs Hunter giggled and shushed at Jemma by turns. “IT’S _ENTIRELY_ NATURAL!”

“Shhhh!” Mrs. Hunter sounded reproachfully, gesturing towards their chaperones, who had turned to look their way.

Jemma buried her face in her muff, giggling uproariously at their mischief. When she could breath again, she whispered harshly, “If outdated notions of propriety weren’t standing in my way, I should have sated my curiosity _AGES AGO_!”

Barbara deposited herself gracefully beside the other two, and said, rather bewildered, “Truly?”

“Why _yes_ \- My intended has a rather finely formed derriere. I should like to put my hands upon it and squeeze, why, just as often as I’d like.”

“M _ISS JEMIMA SIMMONS!_ ” Bobbi sputtered, a mixture of pleasure and scandal running across her features as her mouth gaped open, “Do I take this admission to mean you may have already...performed _such_...have already... _done_...so?”

“Why yes,” Jemma said with a matter-of-factness that belied the subject matter. She grinned like a cat that had got the canary. “It was _wonderfully_ firm and muffiny. I should like to get my hands upon a baker's dozen as quickly as possible,” she said with a very forward wink.

“Her wig’s fair powdered! She’s boiled as an owl!” Daisy hissed to Mrs. Hunter, suddenly worried, “What are we to do, if she keeps on in this fashion?”

“Well, she’s certainly addled, that’s right enough. Propriety aside, it will hardly matter how well they know each other currently, for tomorrow, they shall know each other biblically, but, for the consideration of our fair chaperones, I do think it would be best if perhaps, we sent word to have her taken back to her address, sooner, rather than later - perhaps a servant?”

“I shall send a note to be picked up. Miss Daisy, if you wouldn’t mind - wave over that little street urchin chimney-sweep - he looks as if he could do with an extra few shillings.”

“-If you’re sure?” Daisy said, looking to Mrs. Hunter for allowance.

The married woman shrugged. “She seems well enough in mind, simply filterless at the mouth. I see no harm in it - Jemma, darling, shall we leave you to it while we make your excuses and create a hasty diversion?”

Jemma waved them off with a wide smile hanging off the corners of her mouth. “He won’t be but a moment,” she said with aplomb.

She did happen to know where her future-husband’s night had seen him to. She had it on good authority that he had been whisked to a tiny opium den to gamble and drink and carouse as one was wont to do on the last moments of freedom before being shackled for eternity to one’s chosen life-mate.

That good authority was, of course, Fitz himself, who had begged her, in his hastily scrawled epistle, to save him from such indecencies - why, he claimed, Lance had organized a tour of a small (but cleanly!) brothel, to do away with Fitz’s pesky virginity prior to their wedding night, and ‘educate’ him on the finer details of pleasure for the feminine sex.

Jemma had snorted, her mouth pulling into a smug grin - the less Mr. Hunter knew of their scandalous scientific dalliances, the better.

As the hidden den of iniquity was merely a few blocks from the lovely little pond, it was a perfect opportunity to both rescue her intended, and to do as she had intended, upon thinking of him, this night, and squeeze his pert bottom in hand, surreptitiously, as he walked her home.

That is, if she _could_ walk. She was feeling rather dizzy. Perhaps she ought to have him thieve the gentleman's carriage instead...

Jemma took a few fortifying breaths, and in a quick, firm hand, her eyebrows raising with the naughtiness of the sentiments she was scratching onto the scrap of paper from her purse, she concluded a short, but rather graphic, note. With a sharp crease to fold it, she handed it to the small street urchin with a pat on his head and scrunch on her nose, detailing the address.

“You must give it to the most uncomfortable looking gentleman in the room - about yea tall, with sandy curls and a gaudy cravat of Scotch plaid. It’s quite dashing.”

“Yes Miss, righ’ away Miss. An’ fank you for the generosi’y Miss! A whole pound!” The little tyke crowed with a hop, straightening his cap and running along. “I will make sure the gent’s quick abou’ it too!”

* * *

 

> **_My most handsomest and cleverest and dearest Fitzy;_ **
> 
> ****
> 
> **_I, your chosen intended bride, Miss Jemima Simmons, do formally request your presence, forthwhith, at Glengarry Pond. The reasons for this summons are three-fold;_ **
> 
> **_In the first, I have a burning desire to feel your hands and lips and body against mine, to engage in petting of the first order, and perhaps even - to come to ‘grips’ with your imperssive manhood._ **
> 
> **_In the second, I may have imbibled a smattering more of a cordial-like beverage, sampld librally during this most exasassperatingly tiresome of occaisions - chaperons - they shall be the first good things marriage shall do away with (aside from, I should hope, our pesky virginities, my darling future-husband)._ **
> 
> **_And finally, in the third - I wish to squeeze your very well-formed bottom, and cannot do so with you so far away. Do come here as quickly as you might be able to! It is most inconvenient!_ **
> 
> **_P.S._ **
> 
> ****
> 
> **_I may have been unclear, earlier. I am quite fablosly intoxcated. Jamaican Rum in hot cocoa is a delight!_ **
> 
> **_Also;_ **
> 
> **_If you might abscond with Mr. Lance Hunter’s carage, I would be most apprecitve - I am feeling rather dizzy, my love._ **
> 
> ****
> 
> **_Your Most loving, and Most drunk,_ **
> 
> **_Jemma_ **

 

Fitz coughed and gulped at the same time - the whiskey burning at his throat and making his vision go slightly cross-eyed.

He pulled at his cravat and sucked down a ragged breath, quickly whipping his eyes to the young boy who stood beside him, arms impatiently crossed.

Fitz hastily stuffed the note into his pocket, and pivoted into an awkward, discombobulated pace.

 _This_ was a fine kettle of fish.

The question was, how _much_ could she have said?

...No, really the question was how _loudly_ could she have said it?

Fitz buried his face in his hands and made a frustrated sound, somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

“Tha’ woman’ll be the death of me,” he whined, turning his eyes pleadingly to the ceiling.

The young boy tapped his foot. “The Missus was shiverin’ cold, sir. Quite fair pu’ out, y’see? I dunno why y’be waitin’ aroun’ ‘ere, wiv such a pretty fing dyin’ of the chill, waitin’ for you, gov,” he chastised, furrowing his brow at Fitz.

“-Quite right, yes, erm...one thing…” Fitz broached. “-You, uh, you didn’t happen to, erm, peruse the contents of the letter, did you?”

The street urchin quirked a quizzical brow at the gentleman that followed him out of the speakeasy, toward the local stables. “Oy, gov, do I _look_ like I can read?”

Under his breath, the preteen muttered,  “Dunno why such a lady as ‘er finks so highly of someone quite so dim, but I s’pose it takes all kinds,”

* * *

 

Miss Daisy and Mrs. Hunter had deposited Miss Simmons under a stand of enormous fir trees, whose branches were being blanketed in slowly falling snow.

From his distance, Fitz could see her, face upturned, staring in rapture as tiny flakes drifted from the sky. She was twirling in a muddled fashion, stealthily sticking the tip of her tongue out to catch the icy flakes.

He felt a warmth of feeling expand like a balloon inside him, rising from his toes, out through his chest, curling ruddy over his neck and chest and ears as he blushed, watching his befuddled bride-to-be finding joy in such tiny, childlike pleasures. She would sneer to be called so, but in this moment, he found her completely and inconsolably charming.

“ _Cor_...” The young boy, Edwin, breathed, his eyes wide as saucers, looking at her as the curricle-sleigh drew to a stop. He jumped out into the snowbank.

“How on earth d’ _you_ ge’ a fancy lady as _tha_ ’?” young Edwin questioned, watching Jemma trip jauntily forward with a trill of laughter, her cheeks full of colour and her eyes full of mischief, her hand upon her bonnet.

“With science!” she answered for Fitz, and then added, “And sweetness.”

With an abashed grin, he helped her into the handsome sleigh.

“-And he was so quiet and pasty - so extraordinarily smart and handsome.” She placed a palm against Fitz’s cheek, and thumbed his long eyelashes lovingly. “I could not have been more affected.”

Fitz’s eyes fell, half-lidded, looking at her lips like it was a caress. On his mouth hung a dopey, lopsided smile, and he looked, for all the world, to be the happiest man in it.

“ _Cor_! Ge’ a room, gov! Mistress Tintangel’s is tuppence _and_ down the alley, even!” Edwin teased with a wave of his grubby hands, shooing them on.

“Away wi’ ye, ye li’l blighter!” Fitz mocked, his accent thick with love and teasing, pulling off his tophat with a wink. “Y’ll see naught here, my lad!”

Using the tophat to shield their indecency, Fitz leaned with smile into the kiss that Jemma was tenderly lifting to his lips. He could feel the icy melt of the snow she’d caught on them, the way her fingertips pressed into the stubble of his beard, tracing the line of his jaw. He wound an arm around her waist, and pulled her tighter to him, tilting his head to angle his lips more firmly against hers. With a small movement, his tongue flicked at the seam of her mouth, begging entrance - and with a small sound of pleasure, she granted it, the tip of hers fluttering against his, sending shivers down his spine.

With a deep, distressed groan, he broke their embrace, wishing desperately that it were the next evening, and that they would not have to give one single toss about propriety.

He settled back, gripping the reins with a sigh, and looked at his fiancée. She had delicately brought her fingers to her lips, and her dainty little kitten tongue was flicking out over them, as if she was savouring the taste of him.

He whimpered, and then blushed, and looked back at the team of horses, shuffling and huffing in the snow. With a snap of the reins, they were off.

“I may be quite drunk.”

“I may have guessed,” he said with a smirk.

“Was it the forward nature of the note? The salacious intent?” she asked, her hand snaking up his thigh under the fur she had draped across their laps.

With a grin, he allowed. “Not exactly...Your usual careful attention to detail was slightly lacking.” He turned, quirking an eyebrow at her. “You imbibled, and had an exasassperatin’ evenin’, or so you wrote.”

With a peal of laughter, Jemma collapsed into the fur of her muff, her shoulders shaking as the giggle-snorts petered out. “Imbibled,” she breathed, shaking her head.

“Perhaps we ought to take a few turns around the neighbourhood, instead of depositin’ you straigh’ away to your Grandmama, my darling?” Fitz suggested, reaching out a hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

With a delighted sigh, she shuffled closer, and snuggled into his side, nuzzling her cheek into the crook of his shoulder. “Mmmm,” she agreed. “Anything to spend even one second longer with you, my love.”

Fitz’s smile grew, as he teased, “Why, tomorrow you do realize, tha’ you’ll be spendin’ the rest of your life with me?”

Jemma nodded, her eyes slipping upward, taking in the way he coloured against the sifted sugar snowfall. “It’s not hardly long enough. There’s so much I have planned,” she mused, running a fingertip, drunkenly, against the edge of his shirt collar, tugging on his cravat.

“Oh really? And wha’, pray tell, might my future include?”

“There was a cottage once, the one I told you about, in Perthshire? On a family holiday,” she noted, staring up at him like he was the universe made human, made small. “There’s that. It’s far enough away from my family, and near enough to yours, and it had a carriage house and a gardener’s shed that could be turned into a lab space for us.”

She nodded, her hand shifting up his thigh to intertwine her fingers with his free hand. “And of course, you’ll want dogs. They’ll probably flock to you, all the local strays, they’d know right off, what a good and kind and caring man you are, what a dear man…” She trailed off for a moment, and then caught the thread again. “And of course you’d adopt them _all_ \- how we’ll manage to feed all of them _and_ our small brood of children -”

“- a brood? Shall we?” Fitz asked, biting his lip in anticipation.

“Well, as fornication leads to conception in many cases, I don’t see how it’s to be avoided. There is limited research on contraceptives, and I do have some illegal tracts and some good advice from midwives and servants, which I might make a study of - but of course, that requires experimentation, and Heaven knows, you would be the most excellent of fathers, and there’s nothing quite so pleasant as a house filled with small feet and little laughing voices, is there?”

“Nothing I know,” he answered, feeling the balloon of his heart expand and detach and float, like it could encompass the snowing sky, the entire kingdom, why, the entire empire!

They carried on in that fashion for the better part of an hour. And then, suddenly, it seemed, they were at her gate.

He tied off the reins, and helped her in her (mildly) wobbly descent. “Go straight upstairs,” he instructed, “An’ if Grandmama asks, you’ve hurt your ankle and have a violent headache and must needs lie down quite immediately.”

Jemma pressed up to her toes, darting forward for a chaste kiss. “And what else must I do, professor Fitz?”

His hand sank into her hair as he drew her back, his arm wreathing around her waist as he pulled her tight. His mouth against hers was passionate and intensified, his tongue plundering, the force of feeling thrilling her down to her toes.

“Sleep, Jemma, my love. And dream of me.”

And so she did.

**  
**  
  
  



End file.
